Hero of a Highland Wolf (3 page)

“Julia MacNeill,” Enrick said.

She wanted to laugh, but she managed to keep her mirth under control. The brothers' surprise at learning of her connection to Julia was just too rich.

“Julia
knew
about the sparring,” Enrick continued, not asking a question.

“Aye,” Lachlan said.

“She told you?” Enrick asked Colleen, still sounding surprised that no one had fooled her. Maybe they even wondered what else she might be aware of.

Like…they planned to put her in the White Room. She didn't know what that was all about—nor did Julia, because even Ian didn't know—but Colleen suspected some murderous ghost lived there. Julia had told her about Ian's ghostly cousin, Flynn, and how he caused mischief for some of the lasses at Argent Castle.

So what kind of a ghost lived in the White Room? A scary one to help change her mind about staying, she assumed. It wouldn't work on her. She didn't believe in ghosts.

“Yes. We're the
best
of friends,” Colleen said.

If she demanded that Grant give her another room, she suspected he would tell her no others were available. If they thought she was a pushover, they had another think coming.

Enrick didn't laugh like Lachlan had done when Colleen mentioned she knew Julia. He seemed a lot more serious as he watched Grant and Ian slow down, looking as though they were beginning to grow weary. She wondered how long they'd continue with the ruse. She was tired of filming them, but she would keep shooting them as long as they continued to fight.

Many of the men had quit sparring and now watched the two pack leaders in their bid for dominance.

She loved it. In her world, men just didn't do that. Maybe a couple of men battled it out in a show at clan gatherings or Renaissance fairs. But not gathered about in an ancient castle's bailey, or with everyone wearing kilts, bare chested, and beautifully greased down—and with all of them also part of a wolf pack. She noticed then that no women were about. None watching. Not even from the ramparts and out of harm's way. Was this usual? Or did Grant think having only braw males in attendance would intimidate her further?

His plan wouldn't succeed. She loved observing them in battle. She wished Julia could be here, too. She knew her friend would take copious notes to use in writing her Highland werewolf romances.

Finally, Ian conceded. “We could fight all day, you and I, Grant MacQuarrie, my good friend. But I'm famished.”

“Aye, to the feast.” Grant glanced in Colleen's direction as if he finally had time to acknowledge her as she stood there with her camcorder in hand. He also noticed his brothers standing on either side of her. His brows rose marginally to see them there. Although he was in charge, his brothers seemed to have other notions.

She finally turned off the camcorder, right after she got a nice smile from Ian and an equally captivating scowl from Grant, directed at his brothers. She was enjoying the brothers' reactions.

Grant's gold-flecked brown eyes squarely held her gaze. His wolfish expression was stern, typical of a pack leader, his light brown hair caught by the breeze.

Grant stalked toward her, joined by some other men who wore the same plaid, while Ian watched from a distance.

All pack leaders inherently had the wolf's stare down to perfection—judging a newcomer's threat and whether the new arrival was a beta or, even worse, an omega. He wouldn't intimidate her as much as he might like as she met his gaze with a smile. She didn't have any delusions that a smile would win him over. But she hoped she might befriend some of the betas in his pack. She counted on it.

“You must be Lady Colleen Playfair. We were in sparring practice—” Grant said, sounding very much in charge and as though he couldn't be bothered rearranging his schedule to accommodate her arrival.

“She knows Ian's wife,” Enrick said, cutting his brother's comment short.

Grant looked from Enrick to Colleen, his expression surprised as his brows rose in questioning and his jaw dropped a little. She was having way too much fun, and it killed her to have to stifle a laugh.

He glanced at the camcorder in her hands and said, “You don't plan to share that with the world, do you?”

She suspected his sudden change of subject had to do with being unsettled to learn that she'd known about all this beforehand. He sounded more like he was telling her than asking her. Of course, she wouldn't share the video with the world. She'd need the men's approval, and she was certain this wolf wouldn't give it.

“Oh, I'd love to. I'm sure it will remain mostly mine for private viewing. But Julia”—Colleen waved at Ian—“wanted me to send her a copy of it. She's a romance writer, you know. The video will be great for visuals to use in writing scenes for her next story.” And Colleen would most likely send her girlfriends back home some of the special shots of Grant.

Though she wouldn't say whose hot buns they were, in case her girlfriends shared them with social media outlets. And she would only send shots of that special part of his anatomy so no one could actually identify him. What were girlfriends for, after all?

Ian then joined them and Grant said, “Lady Colleen Playfair, meet Ian MacNeill.”

Before he could finish formal introductions, she smiled brightly at Ian. “I'm one of Julia's best friends. She has told me so much about you. You're the hero in nearly all her books.” She shook Ian's hand.

“
Nearly
all?” he asked, a glint of humor in his dark brown eyes, his mouth curving upward.

“Sure. Before you came into her life, she had to make up fantasy heroes,” Colleen said very seriously. She'd read some of Julia's recent releases, and she could see a real difference in the look of her heroes.

“She…never mentioned
you
,” Ian said, sliding a half-guilty, half-amused look at Grant.

“Ah, why would she talk about me? I'm sure that once she arrived here, you occupied all of her thoughts,” Colleen said breezily.

“This way,” Grant said, motioning to her and Ian to join him in the keep. He did not look very happy.

Ian smiled at her as he displaced Enrick, while Grant took his brother Lachlan's place beside her. Ian shot Grant a look that said whatever Grant had planned wouldn't work on Colleen. He nodded in sympathy, as though he had faced the same issue with his wife as Grant now had to deal with—a headstrong American she-wolf.

Knowing Julia, Colleen could just imagine. She wondered what Grant had planned for her next. The feast, yes. Haggis? Blood pudding? She had acquired a taste for them already, preparing for her stay here. So he wouldn't make any headway with getting rid of her in that way.

She was famished.

***

Grant couldn't believe the she-wolf had known about the mock fight before she arrived. What else did she already know about? What else had Ian shared with his pretty wife that she, in turn, had shared with Colleen?

The White Room. Grant had mentioned that to Ian earlier in the week. Though no one but Grant's people knew the significance of the chamber. He was glad he had not revealed more to Ian. But before today, Grant hadn't told Ian about the feast they had planned.

Colleen's dark brown hair curled over her shoulders, some of it whipping in his direction and tickling his shoulder, while her silky, sheer skirt slapped at his bare legs. He would have moved out of the fabric's path, but he stayed in close proximity in an attempt to intimidate her. His skin was oily and sweaty, and he didn't believe any prim and proper young woman would want to share the same space with him. She, on the other hand, smelled of a soft floral fragrance—jasmine, he thought—and all she-wolf. He had a devil of a time not breathing in
her
scent in a much-too-interested fashion. He just hoped she hadn't noticed.

The lass had not looked the least bit intimidated. He couldn't believe his brothers had been standing on either side of her like bookends. Maybe they had made her feel safe from all the men's fighting, but they should have left her alone. He would have to learn what else they had discovered about her.

Then again, she'd seemed so intent on capturing the action on her camcorder that maybe she wouldn't have felt unsettled if his brothers weren't guarding her. He couldn't believe she'd captured him and Ian fighting on video. To share with Ian's wife!

As much as he hated to admit it, Grant wondered if his brothers might be right about the difficulty of this task he'd taken on.

She held her chin high and worked hard to keep up with his and Ian's quick, long-legged stride. He couldn't help but witness her pert breasts bouncing in the clingy top she wore. He attempted to keep his eyes averted, straight ahead on his target—the keep, the great hall, and the feast that was sure to shock her.

His damnable gaze shifted twice to take in the appearance of her nipples pressed against the fabric, as if he had no control. If that wasn't enough to catch his attention, her skirt was semi-sheer, allowing the viewer glimpses of her naked legs from about thigh high to her heeled shoes.

He tried his damnedest not to show any interest, though his wolfish side was ruling his human half at the moment. He needed to concentrate on his goal: running the Playfair properties without interference from the lass. For a year and a day! Two weeks, he could handle. A month, maybe. But a year?

He shook his head, saw that his brothers had already entered the keep, and hoped they ensured that everything for the meal would be just as he had ordered.

As soon as they entered the keep, he heard the sound of his dogs racing to greet them, their toenails scrabbling over the stone floor, out of sight, but they would be here momentarily. Did Colleen like dogs? They sounded like horses stampeding.

Grant smiled, ready for the next phase of his plan to work.

***

Before Colleen and Grant and the others reached the dining room, three monster dogs that looked as big as horses sprinted toward her. She thought they would attack. They did—in a wet, slobbery, loving way. Thank God, she
loved
animals. All kinds and shapes and sizes. Though she wasn't ready for the assault of the giant, woman-licking hounds that dwarfed her and would be taller than their master when standing on two legs. They were Irish wolfhounds, with big, doe-like brown eyes; huge, wet, warm tongues; and bristly chin whiskers that made them look like little old men. They were adorable, but they needed some obedience training. And she knew just how to go about it.

She'd need some treats. And a clickable pen.

She wanted to scowl at Grant, who didn't make a move to quiet the dogs as they nipped at her in playful exuberance and jumped all over her. If they ripped her skirt, she would take it out of Grant's salary.

His men watched, smiled, chuckled, and waited to see her reaction when she couldn't take one footstep toward what she suspected was the great hall. She greeted the dogs, attempting to calm them and showing she wasn't scared of them. Frustratingly, she couldn't hide from the men that she felt a bit overwhelmed. If she couldn't show the wolfhounds she was in charge, she wouldn't be able to establish to anyone that
she
was the owner of this castle.

She had to remind herself that these things took time, and she couldn't expect to change things overnight.

The dogs finally “escorted” her to the great hall, as if the wondrous aroma of roasted pig was too much for them to withstand. They didn't forget her. They kept returning to her, or looking back to make sure she still followed them. Which she thought was cute of them.

She belatedly realized that the men taking her to the feast were half-naked. She almost smiled. All these men seated at the tables, bare chested, some as hairy as the hounds, would make it appear that she was at a nudist-colony feast. As long as
she
didn't have to be nude, she didn't care.

And Grant? He might think to intimidate her with his nakedness and his sweatiness, but hey, she was a wolf, and he smelled
divine
to her—all that hot, yummy testosterone rolling off him in delectable waves. She took another deep breath of him, while she attempted not to let him know how much he interested her. She admired him strictly as an art form—like Michelangelo's sculpture of David in a kilt, rather than totally in the raw. Though she couldn't help wondering how Grant would look standing on a pedestal like that, totally in the raw. She smiled a little to herself.

When she finally managed to reach the great hall, where rough-hewn boards were set up as trestle tables with benches next to them, she thought she'd landed in the medieval period. Julia must not have known about this or she would have warned her. Colleen was dying to say how quaint it was for them to live in the past. But she bit her tongue. She didn't want Grant to think he'd gotten her goat, as her father used to say.

At least the tables were situated like a comb, the spine serving as the head table, and she wouldn't see beneath the lower tables and witness how well-endowed—or not—the men were in their kilts, in case they hoped to shock her.

She thought of pulling out her camcorder and taking a picture of the medieval setup for Julia to use in her writing, but then Colleen saw the main course. She hadn't expected to observe a
whole
roasted pig sitting on the serving table displayed right in front of the head table. She had the sneaking suspicion she would be sitting fairly close to it with a bird's-eye view of the beast.

Sure, she had eaten a roasted pig, apple in its mouth and all, in Hawaii at a luau, though when they served the meat, she didn't see them carving it from the poor pig. And she'd been a
long
way from the table where the pig was. The night had been upon them, torches wavering in the oceanic breeze, and the pig not even visible.

Everyone observed her, waiting to see her reaction. She had to put on a great show, though this would be tougher than she'd thought.

“Over here,” Grant said, guiding her to the head table, and yes, he sat her right in front of said pig. The only good thing was that she was seated smack dab in the center of it, not at the tail end or where she had to look at its snout.

Then she noted she had a huge portion of blood pudding and haggis sitting in the middle of her…
trencher
? A piece of brown bread was being used for a plate as in early medieval times.
Come
on.
They couldn't be living that far in the past. Where were the plates? The silverware? She was dying of thirst and was looking forward to drinking a cold glass of water. She hoped Grant wouldn't serve honeyed mead or ale on top of everything else.

A servant carved slices of pig for Grant and her.

“We bring our own knives,” Grant said as if he could read her mind and handed her his sharp-looking knife. “
Sgian
dubh
,” he said. Then he took another knife, stabbed his slice of pork with it, and began to eat off it like a barbarian!

No forks. No spoons. No napkins. No plates. And no glasses of water.